


Vast

by sinners_sandwich



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: M/M, One Shot, goddamn fluff tbqh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2015-10-29
Packaged: 2018-04-28 18:34:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5101367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinners_sandwich/pseuds/sinners_sandwich
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few moments on the road. (Roman/Dean)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vast

**Author's Note:**

> it's nothing but some words about doubting yourself and being a little in love with your best friend; if that is acceptable to you, then enjoy!

For as much as Roman stands for _home_ \--for family, for stability, for even ground and always getting what you paid for--he finds a sort of peace on the road that can't be found anywhere else.

It rings true these days and weeks and months more than it ever did in the past; some nights he travels alone, many nights he travels with Dean, but either way, it's always quiet, even when voices are raised and the rental's swerving dangerously on the empty stretch of highway during arguments that don't mean anything. For them, it's the difference between _three people_  and _two_ , the hard boundary of calm somewhere between those two numbers.

Seven-thirty in the evening, that's what the clock reads, and it's quiet now in every sense of the word, barring the slight snoring from the passenger's seat. His thoughts are occupied with logistics at the moment, with which exit he's got to keep an eye out for, and figuring how far they can drive from here to minimalize how much driving they've got to do tomorrow. A plane ride would've worked better, but it's not unusual for him and Dean to opt for the road.

"Hey," Dean says suddenly, like he startled himself out of his own dream, and Roman keeps quiet until Dean's properly awake. Dean clears his throat, shifts in his seat, long limbs probably just as cramped as Roman's are. "How long'd I sleep?" he asks through a yawn.

"Two hours," Roman says. "Must've been bored, eh?" The side of his mouth curves up, in a smile.

"You say that like it's a bad thing." Dean's slumping down in his seat again, folding his legs up and propping his shoeless feet up against the dashboard like it's something an adult does. Though the only reason it really bothers Roman is there's clearly not enough room for a guy Dean's size to be doing that without giving himself cramps.

"It's, ah, generally considered a bad thing," Roman notes.

"I mean, statistically, you're better off driving while I'm asleep. Wouldn't make Roman Reigns Estimated Arrival Time To Albuquerque if you had me chuckin' gumballs at the cops, not likely at all."

He says it like it's the worst thing in the world to have a schedule of some sort. Despite himself, Roman's grinning, even laughing a little, and that's the most succinct summary of Roman-and-Dean after all. "Just passed Albuquerque, actually," he says, kind of proud of this fact. "We'll probably be able to call it in early tonight, get some of that sleep we're apparently so in need of."

Dean just makes a face at the ribbing, more to himself than anything, straightening his legs out again and putting his feet back on the floor before leaning against the car door, forehead pressed to the windowpane in the fading light of the desert sunset.

"Y'know what I miss?" Dean says after a few minutes have passed. Roman doesn't know, but now that you mention it he's always had ideas about that. Still, Roman knows how doubts can sometimes sound like accusations, and he knows when to keep his mouth shut: 'most of the time' on things that matter. He always settles instead for those slight grins and the warm squint of eyes that suggests he's in on the joke he's still waiting for someone to tell.

"Cactus fries." Dean answers his own question and casts him a lazy, sidelong look. "You remember that one place a little way out, toward Santa Fe? With all the John Wayne shit on all the walls."

They've just passed Albuquerque heading west, and Santa Fe is a bit more than _a little way out_ , it's actually an hour or two back the way they came, but Roman nods along to the drumming of Dean's fingers on the edge of the window. The man has got his mind set on something. "Yeah, I remember it. The John Wayne shit and the broken jukebox." He doesn't hint toward that memory any further 'cause he knows by now the past is a space that's much more comfortable for him than it is for Dean. "You craving fries? I think there's gotta be at least a few places out here that have them too."

"Eh, maybe," Dean shoots back, sitting up--going from slouched down to upright quicker than he should, head pulled away from the window so he can look over to Roman. There's a request in it that Roman already knows he's not gonna put down. "But the ones there? At that Santa Fe joint? Man--those were something special."

And Roman doesn't know if Dean's trying to relive the days when _two_ was _three_ , or replace the memories, but defensive is more at his core and not on his surface, so he nods four times before pulling off the next exit to turn them back around toward Santa Fe.  
  


* * *

 

They've been around each other enough that there's more familiarity between them than those brief pockets of uncertainty. Dean's quiet across from him while he waits for his cactus fries, probably thinking about something or another, tapping his foot, shaking his leg just a bit too close to Roman's own, and once in a while drumming the length of his fingers across the tabletop.

And Roman--as always--is aware of the noticeable differences between them, how he's a nearly stony figure that only gives an occasional shift to stay comfortable or pick up his coffee. Quiet, relaxed, leaned back; steady, for every bit of energy that bounds off the other man, who's leaned slightly forward against the table.

Out here, they could look like typical friends. They're don't touch extensively. They don't really look at each other throughout the meal. The silences they share at times could even be read as awkward, probably--as Roman has frequently noticed by the way, on different occasions, someone will come up to say something, initiate a few friendly laughs and get some conversation going as if they're doing a favor to two men who seem to have no idea how to fit together.

Roman's never been about being understood by those who don't matter, really; he's more about just doing what needs to be done. And though Dean's never been the sort you'd take for _understanding_  anyway, he's the one who's always glancing at him, maybe looking for something to indicate his thoughts, a sign of anything that isn't those all-encompassing smiles Roman wears more often than not.

He never really asks what's on Roman's mind directly, but Roman knows there's intimacy in the vast amount of space Dean gives him, that unique way of caring, that unique way of trusting that someone doesn't need to be watched, examined, and taken apart for his potential future actions. He feels closest to him at these moments.

Roman doesn't like to think of himself as clueless, but he often takes the risk of giving Dean too much credit, being a man of habit and dedication foremost, and knowing he has always been right about one thing; the only people Dean has ever disappointed have been people who expected him to be someone he was never capable of being. And Dean is unpredictable, but he is no liar. He's always been too big to grasp in any sense of the word, and well. Roman wouldn't blame anyone for being a little in love with that.

Because Roman can breathe in that space between them in a way he can't breathe when he's alone, torn between wanting to know everything about Dean's thoughts and just soaking himself in that openness, the spray of the ocean against your face that's just enough to cool your head and remind you how vast it really is.  
  


* * *

 

They decide to just stay in Santa Fe for the night, and Roman's thankful for the softness of the hotel bed when he drops down onto it, sore limbs sinking into the comforter. He watches as Dean kind of keeps to himself, pacing slowly at the far end of the hotel room as he continues to think about whatever he's been thinking about.

Dean's never liked to be touched all that much. Roman doesn't know why, maybe it's years of isolation, of thinking or overthinking, of old habits dying hard, but Roman doesn't know how to do anything but make room, a bit softer than he'd really need anyone to know he is. He does kind of want to be touched at the moment, but he doesn't think he's got the energy to mess around tonight, and really it's an effort to communicate in general, so he settles for just lying on his back in comfortable repose. He gives Dean his space, letting him reacquaint himself with that silence between three and two, and drifts into a half-sleep.

As isolated as Dean likes to be, though, he never lets Roman do the same to himself, somehow noticing things Roman was never trying to broadcast, somehow picking up his thoughts without really ever looking at him through the evening. Maybe it's a coincidence, maybe its just because he knows Roman doesn't particularly like having people's eyes on him, or maybe they really do know each other's limits like second nature now, neither one willing to encroach, to convince the other somehow that he's better off without him.

Roman turns his head when he feels weight settling down on the bed next to him, opening his eyes to see Dean's sitting down and folding his legs, knees nudged almost uncomfortably close into Roman's side. It makes Roman grin a bit, uncaring toward his own discomfort tonight, just amused by how close Dean likes to shove himself when he does decide to be close, like contact is something that never came natural to him and isn't about to start now.

"You have been in some kind of place tonight, Ro," Dean comments, his hand settling on Roman's middle, fingers rolling down against his shirt and rubbing a bit. "You know, mentally."

"Think so?" Roman asks, his expression falling back to neutral, eyes sleepy but attentive, and he doesn't know why that crooked grin twists Dean's lips, but he wants to. He settles for wondering if Dean's got half his hair covering one eye on purpose or not.

Dean's grin holds. "Did you see the gift shop in this place?" Roman blinks at the subject change but continues to look at him, so he continues. "They got some of those little petrified wood thingies down there, like," he gestures with his fingers, pinching at the air and shaking his hand a bit as if that could illustrate anything so vague. "Necklaces shaped like tiny animals, and keychains, s'pretty cool."

Roman lifts an arm to his mouth and stifles a yawn. "I'll check it out. Maybe find something to send back to Jo."

Dean's grin brightens up a bit, like he's glad Roman connected the dots without making him say it. "My thoughts exactly. This is a once in a lifetime chance, Roman," and his hand slips under Roman's shirt, the cold of his palm on his stomach making Roman's breath catch slightly. "So you get your ass down there and find the best damn souvenir she--or any other child!--has ever seen, and will ever see."

Silent laughter shakes the muscle under Dean's hand, and Roman's dubious expression is framed by him reaching up without thinking to push a stray bit of Dean's hair to the side, out of his eye. Dean blinks at him, like he'd forgotten he had two usable eyes until now, but before Roman can draw his hand back Dean's curled fingers around his wrist, and sets Roman's hand against his own side, shifting under the touch.

"Well," Roman heaves a breath after a long silence, thumb rubbing just up under the hem of Dean's shirt, against cool skin, until it warms. "It ain't the most exciting way to play hooky, but it'll do in a pinch."

Dean rolls his head around a bit, casting him a look. "Huh, that what's been on your mind?" he asks simply, because of course he'd know Roman is pointing to himself as the lack of excitement.

Roman snorts a bit, looking up to Dean from where he's still laid out and studying him in a way that's not really too incisive. "You tellin' me you haven't been thinking about the last time we were out here?" And it's really more of a _the last person who was here with us_ , maybe.

Dean pauses, seeming to get it--hand brushing up Roman's middle to his chest, riding his shirt up along with it, and patting a few times over the dark of Roman's chest ink. "Nah," he says, and despite that lack of explanation, it sounds honest. "You?"

Roman hasn't been, actually, not in great detail, but now he is. He gives a small grin of his own, still managing to keep his eyes open to watch Dean as he talks. "Think it'd be hard to forget us tearin' up the casino and getting our asses handed to us when security dragged us back."

Dean doesn't seem to mind that Roman's dancing around the name of the man in question, doesn't seem offended if he thinks Roman's just doing it for his sake either. "Yeah, well." He huffs. "Seth was always a giant prick when it came to all that, but if you feel like tearing some shit up like last time, you know I'm game."

Roman shakes with a small chuckle again, reaching up to touch Dean again--to a raspy "laugh now, but you're driving in the morning, Reigns, hangover or not"--but he doesn't make it in time before Dean's folding himself in half and laying his cheek against Roman's stomach, which is decidedly the strangest way he has ever seen someone try to achieve human contact. He readjusts his trajectory and pushes his fingers into Dean's hair anyway.

After a long silence and the lure of sleep clouding Roman's head, Dean wakes him up with words mumbled into his stomach. "I ever tell you about the time he threw out my cards?"

Roman pauses, a couple things ready to come out of his mouth but he just laughs a bit. "Uh, yeah, man. I was there," he reminds him, just a bit offended that Dean apparently forgot. But then, things were different back then, the two of them barely liked each other enough to get along. Things were always sort of better with drinks involved, but they generally deferred to Seth in order to even stand each other.

"Threw em right out the goddamn window," Dean goes on in the same vein (though Roman thinks, there'd been something before that, something about someone putting food coloring in Seth's shampoo and staining that blonde patch blue for a week).

"Two at a time," Roman agrees, trying not to grin. "Right out into the rain."

Dean huffs a slight sound of amusement or aggravation, kind of a _yeah, actually, now that you mention it_  sort of thing. "He said I didn't need eight decks of cards, but, y'know? I did. I fucking liked those things."

Roman hums. He doesn't know exactly what Dean's trying to tell him--if anything--but he does remember Dean telling him once about picking up a pack of cards from 'the old joke shop' back in Cincinnati a few days before the place went out of business, and he squeezes the back of Dean's neck while Dean's hand grips at Roman's wrist again. It's cool comfort, it's that spray of sea reminding you it's there even if it's too big to ever be boxed in, and Roman thinks--as always--it really doesn't matter what happened in the past, and he really doesn't mind if Dean doesn't associate him with shitty memories anyway.

And just like that, Dean's going on to talk about something else entirely--about who they're going to fight when they get to the next place, what's going on down the road. He's tired, and fixating on certain thoughts more than he maybe should, but he listens to everything Dean says, offers his thoughts on them, until Dean's getting up to use the bathroom.

Two minutes later, Roman's only just awake enough to register the weight of Dean sinking down on the untouched bedcovers next to him, laid straight on his back at Roman's side with his arms folded behind his head. There's no contact, but the space between them doesn't make him feel alone.  
  


* * *

 

Roman sort of regrets going to sleep on top of the covers, as he wakes up kind of freezing, and more noticeably, alone. Sitting up slowly, he gets to his feet and forces himself to get into the shower and wake himself up--never really much of an early riser by choice. He's not particularly worried about the fact that Dean's nowhere to be found at six in the morning, not an indicator of anything being out of place with someone who's really never had an 'in place' setting to begin with.

He's kind of falling back asleep a few minutes into his shower--just this side of scalding and just the way he likes it--because he's somewhere around a thousand times lazier than usual on days he didn't get a chance to work out the night before. But he's startled awake by the sound of the hotel door slamming open, then shut.

"The hell is taking you so long?" Dean yells, louder than he really needs to, and leans an elbow against the cracked bathroom door until he can peek in. He comes over to the shower, pulls the curtain open. "Air yourself out man, you're gonna pass out in all that heat and we got no time to go through all that."

Roman makes sure he looks appropriately disgruntled, but he doesn't complain, flicking his head back under the water indulgently and rinsing his shampoo in a way that's so deliberate it could probably be provocative; turning his head this way and that, pursing his lips a bit.

"We all know you're a supermodel, you fucking ham." Dean goes on knocking the side of his fist impatiently against Roman's shoulder, telling him to get a move on. "If you're that in the mood you should've put on the Marvin Gaye last night instead of waiting 'til morning. Got no time for a second shower."

Roman gives with a broad grin, not even disappointed really. "A'ight, what's the rush? I know you're not this excited to get back on the road."

"What?" Dean pauses, then shakes his head slightly. "Gotta hit that gift shop before the shopping rush, man." And Roman's laughing again, because how does someone just say something like that with a straight face.

"Coulda gone without me, early bird," Roman comments, reaching over to ruffle Dean's hair with a hand that feels too warm.

Dean shrugs, and Roman kind of hopes the way Dean's suddenly settled isn't totally unrelated to Roman's hand being on him, a feeling that he's more than used to. Maybe he's just feeling (stupidly) _something_ that Dean didn't go down to the gift shop without him. It's the little things.

"Hey," is all Dean says, with a pointed lift of his brows. "Father of the year isn't gonna win itself, y'know."

Twenty minutes later, bags are loaded in the car, and somehow it seems like getting down to the gift shop actually is what was making Dean so antsy. Dean's content to look through all the cheap souvenirs (and less cheap ones), and Roman's just caught a glimpse of him shaking a cactus-themed snowglobe by his ear like he's expecting it to make a sound--before he finds, entirely by accident, a small display on the far side of the small shop.

He crouches down to the bottom shelving to pick out a deck of playing cards and smiles to himself, turning it this way and that between his fingers, like he's handling something delicate.

"Look," Dean says from above and behind, startling him a bit. "I'm not the dad here, but I will put actual money on the fact that a card deck is somewhere in the top five worst presents you could send to a kid."

Roman smiles back over his shoulder, up to him, knowing far better than to believe Dean's forgotten their chat last night, but he sets the cards back on the shelf, and straightens up. "Think so?" he asks. "Some people like cards, Deano."

Dean gives him a look that's kind of smug, holding up a pendant, a small turtle carved out of a piece of petrified wood. Roman's so caught by this, by this clean little symbol he's always associated with his daughter, that when he takes it between his fingers, he nearly misses the kiss that's suddenly placed against his mouth and the continuing look of smugness (and also some knowingness) that Dean's wearing when he draws back.

There's a part of Roman that's pure appreciation, and pure selfishness he imagines, that wants to wrap Dean in something that can contain him, and keep him barred up in the tight hugs, and the breathless, rough kisses they sometimes share, kisses that somehow mean more than the ones that come along with the sex. But God, Roman can't keep thinking about all that, because he can make himself dizzy with the weight of all those thoughts, sometimes.

Instead, he studies the small turtle again--gives a small nod, then a second one, his lips finally turning up at the corners, at finding family somewhere along the road, at being right at home in a place with no walls. He buys his gift, tucks it safe into his pocket, and they're on their way again.


End file.
